


Come on, snake; let's rattle

by colorfulcharades



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Berlermo, Flashbacks, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Grinding, M/M, OR IS IT, Past heist, Sexual Tension, Tango, a bit of Greek mythology references because of course, basically Martín teaching Andrés how to dance tango, just two dudes being bros, no Bank of Spain no mitochondria, title is a reference to some stupid 1950s slang or whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25399339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorfulcharades/pseuds/colorfulcharades
Summary: "Andrés, don't look away from me".(Right. You're supposed to look your partner in the eyes).
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 20
Kudos: 105





	Come on, snake; let's rattle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isabelu_u](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isabelu_u/gifts).



A glass of wine resting in his hand, Martín Berrote was staring at nothing in particular. 

Not five feet away from him, Andrés was comfortably situated in his own armchair, eyes closed, with a satisfied smile on his face. The heist they had pulled earlier that day proved to be quite a success, their faces plastered all over the news, the television, all attention of the public eye focusing on the two partners in crime effortlessly, almost gracefully, fooling the police once again. Martín recalls the smooth perfection with which the plan was set into motion, weaved with great care to the last excruciating detail. A masterpiece, a work of art in it’s purest form. A delight. 

The response of police was fairly quick, but alas, nothing could be done anymore. By the time they surrounded the building, armed to the teeth as if they weren’t facing just a robbery, Andrés de Fonollosa and Martín Berrote have already disappeared without a trace, hundreds of miles away from Sevilla before the sun had even set over the horizon. 

Afterwards, it was nothing away from the usual, their names heard behind every corner like cautionary tales, fruitless investigations and efforts for searching doomed to failure since the start. Another successful plan, another perfectly constructed rhyme.

The two of them were wretched poets, and they fit each other like a glove. 

Now, in the late hours of an autumn night, they were celebrating their success with a glass of red wine, immersed in the dim light and comfortable silence, a song gently radiating from an old record player in the back of the room. Martín recognized it instantly, a collection of music from the sunlit alleys of Buenos Aires, given to Andrés by him on their last trip to Argentina for a carefully-planned robbery a few long months ago. He recalls them smiling, exploring the beauty of Martín’s hometown the night before they returned to Madrid.

He had taken Andrés to a milonga that night.

* * *

  
  


_ “Wait, Andrés, are you serious? You never learned to dance tango?” _

_ Beside him, sitting by the counter, Andrés took a sip of his martini, thin lips curling into a smile at the question.  _

_ “What are you so surprised for? I’m an artist of thievery and deception, Martín, I don’t have much time to dance nowadays”. _

_ Martín laughed at him then, a sound relaxed and happy, raising his eyebrows in a playful manner as he turned around to face him completely. _

_ “Now that’s a very pathetic excuse, Mr. de Fonollosa. How do you plan to seduce any of these beautiful ladies…” he declared with a pitch, motioning to the crowd around them, “…without learning to dance tango first? ” _

_ Andrés’ teeth flashed in a smile, and he softly laughed at the words, sipping on the burning drink once more a mere second later, staring at an intricate mural painted on the wall nearby. _

_ Like a juvenile fool, Martín found himself staring.  _

_ Andrés was, as usual, blissfully oblivious to it, sipping at his drink in a slow, relaxed motion, eyes closed peacefully as he savored the taste. _

_ And when he opened them again, Martín saw them ablaze with yellow lights of the party, graceful fingers fumbling with a loosened button on his sleeve. He couldn’t help but notice the way Andrés’ burgundy suit embraced the delicate body underneath. _

_ Moments later, when the music invaded his senses once more, moving the crowd with melodies everywhere around them, Martín tried to avert his gaze.  _

_ He remembers them singing along the songs that night, downing drink after exquisite drink in celebration of another brilliant job, safe and almost carefree in the feverish crowd, he remembers dancing tango with women and men alike, taking teasing seconds to stare back at Andrés over his shoulder every once in a while. _

_ And Andrés, he was looking at his eyes every time, keeping himself focused on his best friend like nobody else in the damn bar ever existed, something akin to morbid curiosity shining behind his gaze, and a hint of something else, that Martín never wanted, dared, to admit. _

_ Fascination. Adoration.  _

_ Later, when they were returning to their hideout at that time, leaning on each other just slightly more than usual for all the drinks, Andrés promised him, in a blurry voice, that he will learn the damn dance, just so he could go with Martín to a milonga next time, and compete with him on who could dance tango better. _

_ And Martín laughed with his heart full that night, dancing around the way on empty night streets, and arrived back the next afternoon after a walk, a record of tango melodies wrapped in elegant gray paper as he gave it to Andrés. _

_ “I challenge you, friend. Let’s see if you get better than me by the next visit to this sunny land of mine”. _

_ They cheered then, to the dance, to the freedom and the jewels and the art and the drunken laughs of last night, before turning their backs on Buenos Aires and returning to Madrid, victorious once again. _

_ Almost a year has passed since that beautiful little trip of theirs. _

~~_So, have you learned?_ ~~

  
  


* * *

“Learned what?”

The question snaps Martín out of the sweet bliss of reminiscing, and back into the painfully obvious reality of Andrés, sitting a few feet away, looking at him as if he grew a third eye.

He said it out loud. _Fuck._

“Oh. Nothing, sorry, was dozing off a bit”.

“What were you thinking about?” Andrés asks, and if he wasn’t for the way his eyes so demandingly locked onto his own, Martín would have likely ignored the question.

_ (You). _

“Oh, I was thinking…” he drawled, tilting his head in the direction of a record player.

“…if you’ve taken a chance to learn it. Tango”.

The realization plants a small smile on Andrés’ lips. One that Martín can’t help but notice. As always.

“Unfortunately, not yet”.

“Well now, remember that if you don’t learn, I can’t take you to a milonga to party. You’d be missing out!”

Andrés’ laugh rings throughout the room. Martín feels his very heart flutter. He feels, however, a tinge of something else in it as well. A tinge of alcohol, a tinge of nervousness, even.

Andrés was _mesmerizing._

“If I’m being honest, Martín, I would have loved to, though certain… responsibilities got in the way of my eagerness in the past two months, you see. We’ve been planning today's little show for quite a while, no?“

He takes a sip of his old red wine, lips caressing the cold glass before he continued speaking.

„Besides, as charming as tango may sound, a sad truth is... I had no luck of finding a skilled instructor yet“.

Excuses. Martín almost laughs at himself, at the way Andrés ever so slightly tries to stray away from the topic, never once allowing himself to admit that yes, he has forgotten, it has escaped his mind completely from the last time they went to Martín’s homeland, only slightly recalling, from time to time, when he would play the songs Martín gifted him with. 

Had it been anyone else, Martín would have assumed that, simply, they were not interested in learning. 

But not Andrés. Never Andrés. He has known the man for years now, mesmerized by art, brilliant, yet at times so forgetful of even the things that would interest him the most. He knew, also, that Andrés was ashamed of that fact, rarely admitting his own tendency to misplace things, forget important dates, mix dreams with reality and, as a result, face angry confrontations over it. Martín paid no mind to it, however, for he knew that Andrés was, to him, an honest man, his word meant a window to his mind, and if faced with things he held little interest in, he preferred to reject them right away. And for that sole reason, Martín found his tendency to forget as next to insignificant. They trusted each other with everything, from meaningless pleasantries to their very lives, and so, he never took Andrés' forgetfulness with a grain of salt.

By the way he would always stay relaxed while talking, Martín would have guessed Andrés was thankful for that.

It was either that fleeting thought, or the realization that alcohol has made him bolder, but he finds himself raising up from the armchair. His hand, as if he wasn’t the one controlling it, reaches out in Andrés' direction.

„Then, my friend, how about a free class?“

He almost freezes when he understands what he proposed, standing in front of his best friend with a hand in his direction like he was a lovestruck prince from an old fairytale, beckoning an otherworldly beauty for a dance. The gesture, though gentle, was juvenile, almost perverse in nature, and the longer he thought about it, the more he wanted to push the button and rewind time to where he was minutes before.

But that would be cowardice. It would be cowardice, and Andrés wouldn't let him hear the end of it, and if he backed down now, he wouldn't be able to blame the bold move on glasses full of wine in case of rejection. So he stood, with a tranquil expression, unmoving like he possessed all the world's courage he didn't really have, and he waited.

_ He waited. _

Andrés' face remains expressionless for a few long seconds, a century in Martín’s mind, eyes glistening at the gentle light and focused on Martín’s outstretched hand. There is a gentle spark somewhere in there, noticeable only to his most trusted engineer, to his companion of eight long years and the only real friend he ever really had, and it's _daring_ , it whispers, _take me, take me and dance with me and teach me everything you've ever known-_

A soft, bright smile graces Andrés' face and Martín almost feels like a boy again, eyes chasing the colorful fireworks on a Christmas night back home. As he sees Andrés standing up, he lets out a breath he never realized he was holding in, heart skipping a beat to every graceful step of his, forcefully keeping his composure only when he saw Andrés not two feet apart from him. 

A cold hand of an artist rests upon his own.

„I would love to, Martín. Though, I have to warn you... I'm nowhere near close to your artistry while dancing“.

Martín looks at him, for a moment, before his lips stretch into a reassuring, almost playful grin.

„That's why I'm here teaching you, no?“

And with a sudden step backwards, he pulls Andrés into his embrace, hand low on his waist and closer than they've ever been in the center of that room, all the paintings on the walls around them almost alive, almost like an audience. Andrés exhales a shuddering breath, half surprise and half sheer, feverish excitement, the scent of Martín’s cologne everywhere around him, his presence pulling him in like a vertigo but it wasn't, it was just Martín, _his_ Martín, his only friend and trusted companion, his engineer. His pure, unbridled genius.

He realized, far back in a dusty chamber of his quiet mind, that he didn't want to step away from it.

So he affirmed his stature, head held high and a steady hand coming to rest on Martín’s shoulder. The grip is just a fraction tighter than necessary- a futile attempt to summon back his sanity- and the hand on his waist isn't caressing softly, a tumbled mess of sensations in his head, his heart skipping beats, it doesn't exist.

„Are you ready? The next song is starting“.

Martín’s voice, he never heard it so daring, so low, so intoxicating, rendering him speechless with no effort at all, and only then does he notice his nerves tingling with Martín’s warm breath. Close, it's so close. 

_Fuck_.

Andrés suppresses a shiver with all the willpower he had left, not wanting to face it, not wanting to show _just how much_ is Martín doing to him so close, not yet. It was like a battle, he noticed, a duel of wits, with Martín’s offense subtle and overwhelming like a poison, and he wasn't about to be the one caving into uncertainty at the very first second.

Instead, he devises an attack of his own, his hold on Martín inching a fraction closer to his delicate neck, and he lets himself lean forward and whisper, low and dangerously inviting, right to his engineer's ear.

_ „Lead the way, Mr. Berrote“. _

Martín freezes for a fraction of a second, almost giving into the teasing voice and tight grip on his upper back, Andrés' voice just a tad bit breathless, just a little needy, just enough of everything to make Martín question his sanity and control. 

But the song is starting, the duel between them drawing to an intense beginning, the dance of their bodies, minds and souls alike, taking everything from each other only to give back more.

Martín wants to _teach_ him.

„Do you hear the rhytm, Andrés? This is a slow one“.

Andrés takes a moment to close his eyes, relax into the feeling of guiding hands and enticing melody.

Subtle. Intense, yet stable. It feels like a heartbeat. 

As the rhythm becomes clear, Martín’s voice rings through the music.

„Relax“.

He guides Andrés with a step back, once, twice, before stepping to the side.

„Like that, exactly. Don't step back too harshly. Extend your leg for a bit as you step to the left“.

It feels like a trance, a gentle force pulling him into the oblivion and he can only listen, do what he's told with a head held high, glancing at his feet every once in a while to make sure he didn't accidentally trip over Martín-

„Andrés, no“.

They halt in their step, Martín’s hands stopping him dead in his tracks.

„Not like that. Raise your head and look at me“. 

He does, and by God, he can’t get enough of the way Martín looks at him, blue of his eyes ignited like a flame ready to burn him down to ashes.  For all the years he has worked and lived alongside Martín Berrote, never has he noticed the engineer looking at him this way. 

It seemed… strict. Strict, and daring, and alive in every way unbeknownst to Andrés until now. 

_ (It looks like desire).  _

Had he been honest, he wouldn’t have known what was happening between them right now, was it shameless advances or blatantly a love for the dance moves, how was he to respond to it all. Had he been honest, he would have told himself that he wasn’t supposed to crave Martín’s closeness the way he did now. 

But Andrés de Fonollosa is a liar, a pretender, and liars always loved to play along. So, in spite of a sudden sense of sickening urgency taking over every fiber of his being, Andrés does nothing but look back just the same, a grin creeping it's way onto his relaxed features, putting up an act of assurance that he lacked. 

Martín nods, grinning right back at him, a fire of clear blue in his eyes not dying down for a second, though his voice is steady as he speaks.

„Like that. When you dance, you look your partner in the eyes“.

_Partner_. 

Upon hearing it, a gentle shiver descends down Andrés’ spine, and he almost averts his eyes from Martín’s intoxicating gaze, thinking and hoping Martín didn't feel anything and why was he feeling this way at all, anyway? Where was his steel-cold, relaxed mind? Was it the alcohol turning his chest aflame, making his heart beat wilder, his legs weaker and hands needily holding onto the closest person for support? Was it his mind failing him, drunk already from two glasses of wine, or was this fatigued intoxication a result of something else entirely?

Where was now the Great Pretender, assured in his arrogance mere seconds ago? 

„Andrés, don't look away from me“.

_ Right. You're supposed to look your partner in the eyes. _

The song meets their footsteps and they move again, eyes locked firmly on each other like nothing else in the room existed, step after step followed by a circle, a sharp turn that Martín so expertly pulled him in, a daring twist with Martín’s hand sneaking to his back, a touch burning through the clothes, playful pulling on each other's shoulder to get farther, closer, back and forth and left, then right; until all the directions blurred together and they were left feeling the music, predicting, then following the other's step, securely intertwined and with every second growing more ecstatic, more confident.

„Would you look at that... You're a natural, Andrés de Fonollosa. One could say you hardly needed teaching at all“.

_He decided, then, that he really loves Martín whispering his last name like that._

Andrés smiles before he can stop it, expression that betrayed just a bit of his unexplained thrill, and he dares himself to step closer, face inches apart from Martín’s own. With observant eyes of an artist and criminal alike, he takes time to memorize every crevice, every rise and fall, every thin line of a scar and a hint of a stubble on his chin, the angle of his jaw, eyebrows set together just close enough to give him a serious, though not aggressive appearance. An engineer, looking like a deity. What a lovely, hidden jewel.

_ (Concentrate. You're here to dance).  _

„Martín... don't make me laugh. Surely, all your experienced moves are harder than this, no? I think I need some... more practice, don't you think?“

Martín returns the gaze, almost defiant before he raises his eyebrows, his mouth opening slightly in a mix of surprise and light mockery.

_ (Oh? So, you want a real dance?) _

„As you wish“. 

He steps to the side before Andrés can register the movement, one leg behind his own and an arm tight around his back, and Andrés is _falling_ , pushed back by Martín’s weight, supported by his arm and a body leaning completely over his own, limbs entangled as tight as a vice.

In a millisecond, electricity shoots through his entire body, shock and excitement and an unknown, paralyzing _need_ to never pull back from this sensation. Andrés would be confused, shocked, repulsed, even, if every second of it didn't feel so utterly _right_.

Finding strength enough to bite his tongue and prevent a sound, he tries to focus on the ceiling, suddenly so high above him, it could have been the wide sky itself. 

A sky, and a sun, pulling him into an intoxicating dance, and him, as helpless as the wretched Icarus, a bird in flight that never had enough of getting too close to it. 

He shuts his eyes. 

_ Their hips are touching. _

Above him, Martín stares once more as if the music didn't pass around them, as if no second was slow enough to contain the scene before him. He wasn't ready for it, for the sole fact that Andrés was _divine_ , relaxed completely in his arms like gravity was not an existing concept at all. His expression was one of peace, one of inexplicable, hypnotizing grace, a statue of ancient artisans coming alive and warm underneath his touch as if Martín himself was a god who grew life into marble and made it breathe like a human.

He seemed lost, in heaven or hell or no more than deep thoughts, and wherever his love's mind was straying to right now, Martín wanted nothing more than to join him. 

Steadily, he raises his body back to a graceful stand. His hands raise Andrés in a single pull, back upwards as if his weight was no more than a feather and he wasn't almost falling a second ago, untangles their legs in a quick spin as he extends Andrés’ arm with his own, and pulls him close, their chests meeting in a short breath, close enough to, by any mistake or misstep, fall against each other and close the distance completely.

_ (It's maddening. Don't ever stop). _

And then, with the rhythm raising up to a song three times as upbeat and twice as astounding as the first one, Martín’s hold on his side grows tighter, possessively so. He leads him with precision of years spent listening, listening and dancing and losing his composure with God knows how many partners before this fevered night, melting him and daring him to step closer, to turn more confidently and hold him tighter as well. With one movement, he makes Andrés submit, and in the other, he begs him to lead the way and take him along, and as the entire world blurs with the songs around them, they can only stay drinking the lust from each other's lips and let themselves move with abandon of everything that plagued their minds not minutes ago. 

_ (Your control. Your composure. Let it all go, and take me instead). _

* * *

Note by note, the songs pass by, flocks of black birds in cold October night. 

They only stop to catch their breath at what must have been their sixth, no, seventh song, after they got so accustomed to each other's moves that separating felt like such a bitter necessity, after their lungs tried to catch quick breaths and their shirts stuck to their bodies with sweat. The air was heady with the other's cologne, feet burning in their shoes and every corner of the room was the one they spinned in, every inch of the floor taken by their steps, every muscle in their arms just a little sore from holding each other suspended in the air, leaned close, pushed forward and pulled backward until there was no winner or loser in the duel anymore. 

As their movements halt, distance is nothing but a bitter memory. They're pressed together as tightly as they initially tried to avoid, hands steadily holding onto the other's body and not daring to think about letting go.

Their gazes intertwine once more, and they're gasping for air against each other's lips, not inches apart where they can feel warm, short breaths heating up the skin. Unmoving, they stare at the fire burning in their eyes, warm honey clashing with clear, bright blue, before descending low, focusing on the sweet, _too sweet_ , view upon the other's sinful lips.

They don't notice who closes the distance. 

_ (When did we get this close? Since when was this the only right thing to do?) _

_ (Since forever, probably). _

The kiss is nothing except a brush of their lips at first. It's soft, maddeningly so, and so incredibly warm it renders them shaky in a second. 

Martín is the first to pull away, mortifying realization flashing like lightning inside his mind as he realized what was happening.  _ Fuck. No. No, I kissed him, my friend, my friend who likes women, I took advantage of him, I ruined everything- _

He stares, fear of disappointment so painfully visible in his very soul, as he meets Andrés' eyes again.

„It's not... I'm sorry-„

But Andrés stays right where he is, unmoving, lips almost touching Martín’s own and their breaths still mingling.

Except, his eyes, they are different. They are keeping an emotion so clear locked inside them, as a precious piece of treasure only now revealed to see the light of day.

_ Desire. _

Martín doesn't have a chance to react, before he feels a strong, insistent pull of cold hands resting on his back.

A millisecond later, Andrés is kissing him like a madman. 

It’s pure greed, reckless and desperate, all thoughts abandoned to feel his lips over and over, wet and undignified in all the most beautiful ways as their lips clashed and burned and sucked the air out of each other’s lungs as if they couldn’t breathe in any other way. Andrés’ tongue insistently caresses Martín’s own, lips and breaths mixing together until neither of them was sure where one ended and the other began. 

When they part, it’s with a surprising, but reassuring clarity. 

_ (I want you so bad).  _

And when the music continues, it’s Andrés who pulls him in with the rhythm this time. 

He advances, step by flawless step backing his engineer all across the tiled floor, wishing nothing more than to push him firmly against the wall and hold him in place, to kiss and bite and suck on his skin until the marks of possession can’t be covered anymore, _to take him, and be taken, and do all the things he never knew he wanted to do to Martín-_

But the music is still going, the duel isn’t over yet and, to all of his impatient need, Martín answers with nothing but daring, inviting clarity.

_ „Weren't we supposed to dance, Andrés?“ _

It's pure, cruel _teasing_ at this point, his feet stepping aside, away from the wall and leading Andrés along, across the floor, to the opposite side of the room, and pulling him back to the center before Andrés can feel the cold surface of the wall pressed against his back. They play like that for what must feel like hours, chasing and evading each other, one second a millimeter away from kissing, the other spent in a haze of their dance, standing close to step away and then guide each other back into their embrace, to make step after perfect step, a turn, a spin, a figure.

They don't think of stopping, not until Andrés loses patience and, in a flash of what must have been a mix of blind desire and a perfect sequence of steps, pulls Martín’s body flush against his own. The engineer almost feels like a butterfly caught into a spider’s web, Andrés’ grip hard and shaky and _possessive_ , unable to break away from. 

Not like Martín ever wanted to move, anyway.

But wars like this, they never have a clear winner, and sometimes, a subtle offense can turn the outcome around completely. And if one person was a master of diversions, perfectly crafted plans and turning tables to his advantage, it was, without a doubt, Martín Berrote. 

An engineer finds himself staring right back at an artist only a fraction taller than him, just enough for Martín to lean forward and nest his head, comfortably, in the crook of his collarbone.

He steals a glance to Andrés’ neck then, marveling at the way dim light around them outlined the delicate muscles, a sharp curve and shallow crevice where his eyes met Andrés’ shoulder. The view was breathtaking, irresistible even, and Martín found himself craving, desperately, something that he never dared to admit to himself, let alone the man holding him.

Martín wishes to _taste._

And he does, trembling lips leaning forward to caress the sensitive skin, travelling upward from his shirt’s collar and stopping, gently, to place a kiss where he felt the soft knocking of his pulse. Except for a slight hitch of his breathing, Andrés stays completely still, hands never loosening their tight grip and Martín takes it as a challenge, an invitation, a dare full of unsatisfied curiosity that tempts him to continue.

Andrés is distracted, and Martín decides it may be a perfect moment to use it to his advantage. Without a warning he takes a step forward and, before he can feel any reaction or resistance, he is pushing Andrés up against the cold, hard wall, drinking up his surprise as he traps him with his body, as close as two can be without melting into each other. 

_ He has beaten Andrés de Fonollosa in his own game.  _

Almost triumphantly, he reaches out with his tongue to feel him, licking softly, almost soothingly, on the side of his throat. Andrés is a bittersweet sensation, salt of his skin mixed with burn of fading cologne and it’s as if Martín never tasted anything better because he sighs, loudly, and pulls him closer to get drunk on the feeling.

_ (I wonder, how far can we go until we break?)  _

He decides to experiment, then, and lets his teeth caress for a fraction of a second, before his hold secures Andrés in place and he is _biting_ , those same teeth of his sinking into the expanse of his artist’s delicately sculpted neck. 

The reaction is delightful like nothing he’s ever heard before, Andrés’ entire body restless with a strong shiver, a trembling hand on the back of Martín’s head holds him closer, tighter, as if begging him to taste more. 

His face leans to the side to give him more access and Andrés moans, voice so low and needy it immerses Martín completely, sending a shock of warm, electric arousal throughout his entire being. Out loud, he wouldn’t admit it, but he gets drunk on the sweet sound instantly, addicted like a hopeless man offered a drug that he can’t get enough of. 

Yet even through the insistent fog of pleasure, Andrés is one selfish man. Selfish and proud, so proud of all the things he should and shouldn’t be, and he doesn’t back down without a little fight of his own. 

It’s only a fact, a fleeting thought in Martín’s mind when he feels Andrés turning the position upside down, slamming Martín against that same wall he held him a second ago, lips latching onto his neck to suck mercilessly, returning all the marks from Martin’s lips with his own. 

Martín’s moans drown the music out. 

  
  


* * *

They don’t know how much time has passed, nor when exactly it stopped being a dance and turned into them clinging and devouring the taste of each other’s lips, stumbling through the apartment to reach the bedroom, knocking books off the shelves and paintings off the walls along the way. Paying no mind to the mess left behind, they take each other a little more in every passing corner, limbs entangled sloppily in something way more than a dance, and Martín can only gasp for air and hold on tightly as they pass the door to the bedroom, at long last reaching for the bed. 

And as soon as they do, their hands start exploring each other’s body restlessly, lips marking each other's neck and biting, fingertips pulling on fistfuls of dark hair as they fumble to take off the expensive suits standing in their way. 

Martín’s insistent hands find their way underneath the shirt first, sliding the fabric off of Andrés’ shoulders and tracing the skin with painfully slow fingertips. As he leans closer once again, both of them undressed from the waist up, he almost smiles when his eyes pay a quick glance to the blooming red marks covering the side of Andrés’ neck. 

_ (It suits you so well).  _

He takes another bite, low into the crook of Andrés’ shoulder before soothing the pain with a caress of his tongue, drowning in every low sound that Andrés offers to him relentlessly, generously so. It’s almost distant, the way he feels insistent hands unbuckling the leather belt and sliding below the hem of his pants to expose him completely, skin on skin and without distance in the way. 

When the first touch’s pleasure makes it’s way to Martín’s head, he shivers and moans softly against Andrés’ skin, right at his ear to let him hear everything, everything his touch was doing to him, everything he wished to let Andrés hear for as long as he could recall. 

And when his own fingers start itching with the need to feel, he focuses through the pleasured blur to free Andrés’ from his pants and wrap his fingertips around the length to feel his shape, his warmth, to witness the way his body writhes as his hand starts moving at a painfully slow pace. His heart skips a beat when Andrés grabs him tightly, soft gasps turned into a moan with their lips not inches away, before he closes the distance and pulls Martín into a deep, wet kiss. 

They drink the aftertaste of alcohol off each other’s tongue, submitting to the eager caress only to return it with vigor just the same, needy moans and broken voices a vibration as gentle as a dream yet undeniably real, palpable. Alive. 

He doesn’t recall when exactly they managed to get each other undressed so fast, and his body is quivering with every caress of cold autumn air. Andrés’ cold hands find anchor in the warm skin of his hips and Martín is straddling him, completely naked and closer than they’ve ever been, aligning them together so insistently he barely manages to stifle a pleasured cry. 

It crosses his mind, with the last of rational thoughts, just what they were about to do, completely naked and tight against each other and barely resisting the urge to grind until they forget their own names. It dawns on him a tad bit too heavily and Martín feels the sudden urge to stop, to ask Andrés _are you sure, we can stop anytime, this isn’t what you wanted and I overstepped it and I-_

“Andrés…-“

_“Move”_ he hears him whisper in his ear, fingertips digging into the warmth of Martín’s hips and his voice, his composure, it shudders all over. 

_ “Please… move…-” _

_ (Please).  _

His Andrés sounds so _needy_. 

Martín almost smiles, and he would have, he would have laughed brighter than the sun in relief if he wasn’t moaning in approval at the tone of his beloved’s voice. With a renewed determination of a phoenix rising from the ashes, he grabs Andrés’ shoulders tight and pushes him down onto the mattress almost effortlessly. 

_ (Let’s dance).  _

He would have been many things, surprised, defensive, confused by all means at the outcome of tonight’s few impulsive decisions, but instead, Andrés was nothing else than _enchanted_ , unwilling to resist any temptation of Martín’s or to look, even a second, away from him. The sheets are soothingly cold beneath him and he finds himself grabbing onto them when he feels his engineer’s weight straddling him completely, their erections pressed together tightly and all Andrés truly wanted was to feel the friction, to feel Martín lose his mind above him, to observe and touch and taste until he loses his mind in the feeling-

_ “Andrés. Look at me”.  _

He never noticed he shut his eyes in the first place. 

In a haze, his eyes find Martín’s own, and the man is _glorious_ , reddened lips pulled into an expression graceful and unreadable, his eyes clouded and feasting upon Andrés form, a bird of prey after a flawless hunt. 

Never in his life has he seen Martín like this. Never until now had he realized just how much he needed it. 

_ (Take me).  _

And as if he heard the exact same thought fleeting through his mind at the same second, Martín steadies himself with a hand of Andrés’ waist, and starts moving. 

Everything becomes distant in a second, pleasure and relief washing over his tired body in waves and drawing sound after desperate sound out of him as he clings to the closest surface his hands can find, fingertips digging soft bruises in the skin of Martín’s hips. It’s no shortage of gentleness at first, a rhythm delicate as if Andrés was a blushing maiden and not a full-grown man, but as soon as his hold on Martín tightens, he feels him relaxing and abandoning all restraints as his pace grows faster by the second. 

Drunk on Andrés magnificent sounds, Martín can only distantly hear just how obscenely loud his own voice is. It feels powerful, above all, a breathtaking pleasure robbing them of all rationality and all coherent thoughts. 

And it grows. It just keeps growing, getting sweeter and more intoxicating with each second of their bodies surrendering to pleasure. It’s a dream, a fiction, an unlikely possibility that kept Martín alive all this time in yearning, and as he looks on, he isn’t sure if he should stop believing his own eyes. 

For below him, Andrés is a gorgeous mess, as raw and divine as a renaissance painting, hair ruffled and eyes fogged and chest heaving with erratic breaths, hands clinging to the sheets beside his face as he drinks the sight of Martín with his eyes. 

_Martín_ , his wonderful, _marvelous_ Martín, writhing with every breath and straddling him with all the ease of someone who has done this a hundred times before yet still delicate as a spectre, breathtaking. 

If he could compare him to anything, it would be a deity with a face as beautiful as the moon, sitting on his throne to judge the mortal world. Maybe even a jewel or a dying star, his skin glistening in the moonlight as if he was dressed in constellations and not completely bare. If he looked close enough, he could almost see the great, pristine wings rising from his back, the golden crown of thorns resting upon his forehead and shining in his eyes was a fire worth of the Sun itself, the expression on his face graceful. Victorious. 

Martín was a god, a portrayal of everything he ever wanted, that a devil like himself was not worthy of. 

And if that same god wasn’t moving against him with reckless abandon, voice free od restraint as they chased the pleasure, the thought would have been an agony to bear. 

But right now is neither time nor place for it, his pleasured soul holds no space for questions. As he feels Martín’s pace growing faster, the pressure starts taking him higher than he’s ever been, pulling and pulling until Andrés was drowning in a feeling heady with sweetness and relief. 

_He is getting close._

  
  


“Martín… Martín…” he calls his name, in a voice so low and laced with breathlessness it almost doesn’t sound like his own, like the same stable, unmoving Andrés whom Martín had met long ago. With his fingers, he traces a burning line over Andrés’ lips, feels a tickling sensation of wet kisses along each one of them. 

And then, the warmth of Andrés mouth, his lips parting to taste Martín’s fingers, the soft texture of his tongue lacing over the fingertips as he starts sucking, a pleasured cry muffled as Martín moves faster. 

“Andrés …- god, _Andrés.._.”

_ (You’re so fucking beautiful like this).  _

As the movement of his hips grows erratic, chasing after the high just a little out of their reach, Martín’s voice breaks free in a moan and he takes a look at him again. He moves, harder and more urgent by the second, and when Andrés arches his back below him, he lets his fingertips roam over that strong, fragile, delicate body of his, stopping to caress the narrow of his waist, feather-like touches over his ribcage, a hand, yearning and warm, resting over his beating heart. 

”Andrés-… I…”

_ I love you.  _

Andrés holds him tighter, as if he heard, and Martín could almost swear that, at that very moment, he heard a breathy whisper reach his ear. 

_ (I love you too).  _

And with the next thrust, they come undone completely, once stable movement dissolving completely into a shuddering, pleasured mess, voices rising without order or restraint to moan loudly against each other. The world around them stops, slowing to a halt because they’re high, _so high,_ and for a few long moments it’s almost like everything is made of blinding white and the feel of the other’s body, lost in the heaven they reached together as if they never belonged anywhere else. 

When their senses return, they realize that they are kissing, Andrés pulling on the back of Martín’s head and leaning him down. 

Martín pulls away, placing a small kiss on the corner of his lips, admiring Andrés’ disheveled hair and lips reddened from kisses. 

_ (It was…)  _

“You’re a fast learner, Andrés ”. 

“Thanks to you being a good instructor” he whispers in response, their voices just a little shaky, just a little sore from the sounds echoing throughout the room not minutes earlier. 

_ (It was everything I ever wanted).  _

  
  


An insistent hand wraps around Martín’s back and Andrés tastes the heaven left smeared on his lips, a kiss wet and sloppy and hard in all the most beautiful ways, lost completely in each other’s touch as they start moving again. 

With the night’s last, fleeting thought Andrés realized, that if flying too close to the sun felt like this, he wouldn’t mind being the fool burned to ashes by Martín’s warmth. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Wow congrats to making it this far haha
> 
> This is my first fic in the LCDP fandom, basically 7k words of nonsense b u t I sincerely hope you like it. As it is with all fic writers ever, comments are greatly appreciated (especially keysmashing ngl I love that shit)
> 
> Stay safe guys, wash ur hands, produce serotonin, ily <3


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